A spider embroiders the kitchen window.
Thought’s cobwebs stretch their muscles
as reminiscence threshes feelings
on the dew-wet grass.
It’s midsummer. Guests are out in the yard,
burning wood, cigarettes and hotdogs;
the tamed flames of docile gods.
This bonfire, my late prometheans,
you believe it’s a conquest?
Extinguish it – the very last thing we need,
now when our hollow stomachs neigh
at the instant our feasting has ceased.
Parched, you look for more wine in the cellar,
but the musty tomb’s only dwellers
are old souvenirs from the southern isles,
painted landscapes of a culture’s cradle.
What did you fish for, with what conditions?
The torn net droops from your fingers.
A coiled-up weaver sleeps in its knots,
a knitter knitted by its knitting:
Arachne, the failed muse.
From Turistina täällä (A Tourist Here), 2004.